Sweatshirts and Rain
by TheFairyJesus
Summary: He always forgot to grab a sweatshirt-POV Max-Ernest


It was a normal night, dark and lonely, just like the night before it and most certainly like the night to follow. He wore the same clothes he did yesterday, and the day before. They weren't literally the same clothes, but rather the same kind of clothes-jeans that were a little too small, a shirt that was a little too big, and shoes that fit just right. His hair was longer than he would like it to be, and he wished he had gotten a haircut. It was the same wish he made every night. He walked the same route he had nearly twelve years ago, but it was different. The houses were the same, the trees and bushes were the same, the distance between himself and his destination was the same as it had been all those years ago, and yet something was still missing, something was still wrong. He knew what it was, but he didn't want to admit it.

It started to rain. He looked up to sky, as if he had to see the rain in order to accept it, even though he could feel it against his skin. The rain was warm and heavy, falling slowly as he walked the streets. It didn't normally rain when he made this journey. In that moment he regretted not grabbing a sweatshirt on the way out the door, but he wanted everything to be perfect, and he had never grabbed a sweatshirt before. Sweatshirts weren't perfect, at least not on him. He kept walking, being unable to shake the thought that after tonight he was going to get pneumonia. He had always been a hypochondriac, but technically, hypochondria was thinking you _had_ a disease, as opposed to thinking you were going to _get_ a disease, so he reasoned that that was a valid thought to have.

He had spent a lot of time working with his therapist on deciding what thoughts were valid and what thoughts weren't. He never really understood this, because in his mind all thoughts were valid, but he practiced the exercise anyway because that's what he was supposed to do. But he was also supposed to bring a sweatshirt…

He counted the last twenty-two steps it took to get to the corner before her house. He had always found comfort in the number twenty-two, which is why he always counted-it made him feel safe. He was also getting ready to turn the corner to her house, and the house, and the girl inside it, always made him feel safe. He took a deep breath, and then followed the sidewalk until he stopped in front of the old colonial style house. He took a second deep breath and took in the curvy numbers next to the white painted front door that spelled out 8942. He took a third deep breath and checked his watch, then smoothed his hair and did his best to make himself look presentable, despite his long walk in the rain.

Two long knocks followed by one short. He took a beat. Long- short- long- short, in that order, and then short -long -long (- - * BEAT - * - * * - -). He counted to five. And then ten. And then fifteen. And then he held his breath.

After twenty-two seconds, he turned and walked back to the sidewalk. He quickly crossed the street and sat on the pavement, still wet from the rain, glittering under the streetlamps, and he put his head in his hands. He was messing up his hair, but he needed a haircut anyway, so it didn't really matter. He wrapped his arms around himself, wishing again that he'd grabbed a sweatshirt. But sweatshirts weren't perfect, at least not on him.

But on her, they were beautiful. He didn't like using that word to describe his friend. Yes, she was beautiful, but they were friends and he felt like friends didn't call other friends beautiful. And even if they did, he didn't think she would like being called beautiful, at least not by him. On her, they were perfect. That was a word he would never use to describe his friend. She was so far from perfect, but so close to everything else.

He was pulled from his reverie when he felt her shadow wash over him. Even though he was literally being washed from the rain, he felt nothing but her presence. She reached out her hand and helped him up off the ground, and he subconsciously ran his fingers through his hair. He really needed a haircut. And a sweatshirt.

The two of them walked out into the night, dark and lonely, just like the night before it and most certainly like the night to follow. And it was perfect. Unlike her. And it was beautiful. Just like her.


End file.
